It's the Thought That Counts
by corvusdraconis
Summary: SSHG and utter crack: Hermione Granger writes Santa for the one thing she really wanted: a puppy. Pity she's dyslexic. (Inspired by the animated short "Dear Satan" that was narrated by Sir Patrick Stewart) (complete) [Warnings: Gore]


**Prompts:** poinsettia, family reunion, wrapping paper, crowds, bells, December, pine, party

**Summary:** [SSHG] Little Hermione Granger wanted only one thing for Christmas…

**Disclaimer:** JKR owns the stuff. No copyright intended, and no money being made.

**Warnings:** Utter crack. Also AU. Also kinda dark and um… gore.

**Beta-age**: The Dragon and the Rose and Submissive Bookmark

**Word Count**: 9974 (story only)

**Note:** Story posted originally to the A03 Holiday Gift Fest for the HPFC. Winner of the Nutcracker Award 2019. Woo! Thanks guys!

* * *

**It's the Thought That Counts**

"_She more or less got what she wanted. Sure it had three heads, breathed fire, and pissed lightning, but she couldn't be happier." _

(From Dear Satan - An Animated Short)

* * *

Hermione was much like any other young girl of her age group.

She wrote her letter to Santa like any child was wont to do. Sure, she wrote more to thank Santa for bringing presents to everyone else, praising his hard work and generosity, and maybe she had said that world peace would be a more long-reaching boon than anything else she could ask for or at least a schedule that didn't have her parents always working so much that she rarely if ever saw them, but what she really wanted if it wouldn't be _too _much trouble, was a puppy.

The only problem was, Hermione was just a little bit, possibly a _lot _dyslexic.

Her letter was addressed very neatly to Satan.

Hermione's letter to Santa made its way to some highly undisclosed office location where a seasonal worker attempted to sort the letters. Hermione's letter, however, didn't make it to the stacks. The machine scanned her neatly written "To: Satan" and spat it out as a reject, and the letter tumbled into the rubbish bin. That was emptied onto yet another conveyer belt that went through a scan that technology deemed "Yup, that's definitely Satan, _not _Santa" and her letter joined a pile of other letters addressed to Satan, Satin, Sultan, Shitty, and so on.

As the final bin waited patiently to be examined by a human, one of the workers opened up a shutter on the window and a gust of cold air blew in and scattered the probable rejects across the room.

Hermione's letter landed in the wood-burning furnace and was promptly incinerated, disappearing in a cloud of black smoke.

* * *

The true Lord of Darkness, Lucifer, Prince of Lies, Serpent of Eden, and a whole host of other names unfit for polite company, sat on his throne in Hell as he stroked his favourite three-headed hound, Zoltan. Zoltan, like most hounds, was completely happy at his master's feet, but Zoltan's bitch, Lilith, lay nearby as she tried to wean her puppies from her teats. The sneakiest one would keep using the other puppies to distract his growling mum, and while Lilith tried to shove the nipple hoarders off of her smoothly-furred body, he'd sneakily dive in, find his favourite teat, and guzzle down the milk before his mum could even realise it was done, and then be curled up looking like he hadn't moved far out of range of mum's sharp teeth.

Lucifer itched one wing idly, using two fingers to stroke the outline of his beard as he read his daily stack of hate mail. The mail was usually quite boring. There was only so many ways one could say "I hate you" "roast in Hell" "die in a fire" "stop possessing my relative" "you gave me lung cancer" and "do you really wield a pitchfork?" before he just stopped caring altogether for their petty sufferings and curiosities. It was the time of ultimate cheer in the world above— the holiday celebrating that peace-on-Earth-son-of-God's supposed birthday— or at least that was what it was _supposed _to be.

Lucifer found more smiles in having sweet little old ladies brain innocent people with toasters during Black Friday, and then the chaos of the last minute Christmas gifting rush when daddy got the child the wrong toy (wrong hair, not the right makeup, different car, Autobot versus Decepticon, rampaging slugfests).

It ranked right up there with free-for-all brawls at restaurants and random idiots killing each other over allegedly to-die-for chicken sandwiches.

He had a special place in Hell for _those _particular fuckwits, along with spoiled children and people who caused deadly road accidents whilst attempting to commit suicide and ending up killing innocents instead of themselves. True, it wasn't as if vehicular suicide was worthy of praise in his book, as it just sent more innocent souls back up to the Big Guy Upstairs. Said idiot would inevitably survive somehow, cashing in the ultimate raincheck for Hotel Hell.

He had an entire office of demons who dealt with that mountain of delayed paperwork for the snatching of damned souls. Meh.

But one letter stayed his hand from stabbing it with his talons and tossing it into the pit of bubbling lava.

* * *

_Dear Satan,_

_Thank you for your generosity every year. I know you are quite busy tending to the whole wide world, but I wanted to write you because mummy and daddy don't really believe in you. I want you to know that I do believe in you, and you don't have to send me anything if there is someone out there more deserving. I'll be okay. But— sometimes I get so lonely when mummy and daddy are always working so late and don't have much time for me. They hired me a nanny and all, and she's okay, I suppose, but she hates it when I read out loud instead of playing quietly in my room where she doesn't have to see me. _

_I'm sure it would be better if I asked for world peace or a cure for cancer, and it's okay if you think that is more worth your time but—_

_If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I please have a puppy?_

_I promise to love and take good care of it. It would never have to leave me, and I'd let him sleep with me and everything, take them for long walks and feed them well. I'd even put my allowance towards getting the very best food. _

_I promise to appreciate them every day._

_Thank you for taking the time to read my letter. You must have a lot of them to go through. I admire your ability to do so much for so many people._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

* * *

Lucifer licked his fangs with his tongue. He stood and walked over to where the shiftiest hellhound pup was pretending to be innocent, his belly full of stolen milk. He plucked the pup up by the scruff and eyed it, his sulfurous eyes glowing. "I have the perfect place for you, my little dark soul. A chance for you to wreak havoc upon the world above in your own unique way—"

"I shall give you some _special _gifts to ensure your victory."

* * *

When Hermione ran into the living room where the Christmas tree was glowing softly with multiple colours, she saw the oddly-wrapped package with her Christmas stocking stuck over one part of it.

The package was moving.

Hermione quickly ran up and pulled the glistening red and black **wrapping paper** off it to expose a three-headed pup with three sets of coal-black eyes. His coat was shiny black as if oiled, and he had a bit of a mane of oily hair around each head. There was a white "collar" of fur around each throat making him look like he was wearing a white tuxedo shirt. His paws were a pale almost-white, and he had a splash of white over each muzzle which gave him a rather disturbing skull-like appearance. His belly fur was a strangely almost-black with a hint of dark amethyst.

"_**Eeee!"**_ Hermione cried, glomping tightly to the middle head in a death-like grip.

The pup's eyes bulged, but the two other heads pegged her with their long puppy tongues and heated breath. The middle head belched out a gout of flame as she hugged him, charring off the back of her night gown and licking her skin. A glowing spiderweb of complex runes and symbols swirled on her back in flames before sinking into her skin.

"You're perfect!" Hermione cooed joyfully, petting each head with love and adoration.

One head spotted the pile of biscuits waiting for Santa, and his mouth opened as a mass of writhing tentacles shot out and drew the entire plate's worth of sweetness into his maw. He chewed, if only slightly, before swallowing and belching flame.

"Hey!" Hermione said, frowning slightly.

That particular head flattened his ears and hung his head in shame.

"Now we have to brush your teeth before bed," she said, leading the pup to the bathroom. She picked out a toothbrush shaped like a grey cat and busted it out of the package, ran it under water, put on toothpaste, and then pried open his mouth to brush his teeth.

The pup, frozen with a quizzical and stunned expression, just sat and let the girl perform dental hygiene upon him and all three of his heads until his teeth were sparkling.

"Okay, back to bed. Mummy and Daddy are still sleeping," Hermione said, picking up the unwieldy pup and carrying him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

She plunked him on the bed, crawled under the covers, pulled the pup close, and snuggled him, falling back asleep almost instantly. She didn't even notice as the pup breathed out tendrils of dark smoke like energy peppered with red ember-sparks. She breathed it in peacefully, snuggled tighter to the three-headed pup, and let out a soft, contented sigh. A dark red glow flickered from under her closed eyelids as the pup's triple sets of eyes mirrored the unearthly, daemonic glow.

The pup yawned, snuggled into Hermione, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Hermione was always a little leery of Christmas Day despite all the wonderful presents— Christmas Day meant the dreaded yearly **family reunion** where other distant family members that didn't even know how to pronounce her name properly came and looked her over like they were measuring her up for something and finding her wanting somehow.

Auntie Myrtle would always turn up with her arms full of **poinsettias** and would thrust them into each family member's arms as if warding off evil. Cousin Mavin would stick her nose up in the air and proclaim that no one was as good as her parents because they were _real_ doctors. That would insult just about everyone else because the family was full of everything from dentists, chiropractors, and orthopaedic surgeons. Uncle Colin would grab the remote for the telly, plop into the armchair, and refuse to move for the entire day, yelling at anyone who dared to block the view of sports on the telly.

Every year her oldest cousin, Ginger, would gift everyone with a brand new crucifix, as if they'd somehow lost the others she'd given them in the years before. She and cousin Jennifer would inevitably get into a heated argument over Christianity versus "the heathen religions," and neither of them appreciated Hermione dragging out the encyclopaedia and reading aloud the entries on Christianity and other religions such as Wicca, Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, druidism, and offering up random speculation on the religious rites of various prehistoric peoples.

Inevitably, Auntie Helen would complain that she was terribly allergic to **pine** trees, and Mummy and Daddy would try to explain that the tree was a fir, an entirely different genus, and Auntie Helen would proceed to have a severe asthma attack after snorting a lungful from the dish of holiday spice potpourri— and blaming the tree.

Fig, Uncle Dominic's annoying little Pomeranian, would get all tangled up in the Christmas lights, and cousin Yasmin's neurotic cat, Lovey, would swat all the handbells off the hearth, causing the adults to scramble to save the **bells**. Both Fig and Lovey hated each other with mutual burning passion, and they would try to beat the ever-living daylights out of each other. The cat would usually win the fight by shoving something heavy down on top of the frantically barking Pomeranian's head.

It was all a little too much obnoxious **crowd** and not enough love and happiness for Hermione's taste.

Hermione thought Christmas was supposed to be a joyous time of the year filled with Satan, snowballs, homemade biscuits, hot cocoa, and caroling. She quickly learned that it was more about holiday stress (party planning, attending, or even avoidance.) She became more convinced that the month of **December **actually meant "thirty-one days of horrendous stress" for the Granger family.

This year, however, Hermione was far too enraptured with taking care of her new puppy— a puppy that Mummy blamed Daddy for but Daddy blamed her for. Hermione adamantly corrected them, cuddling her beloved pup close as she carried him to her room to look up a good name for him.

"I think you'd make a good Prince," Hermione decided, closing her book of names.

The pup cocked all three heads in different directions.

"What do you think, Prince?"

The pup blasted her face with fire, blowing her hair back and turning it black with soot. She wiped the soot away from her face and hugged her pup tight. "You're the best puppy _ever_, Prince."

Prince wagged his tail in clear approval.

* * *

"There is something very wrong with that dog," Mrs Granger fretted as she spread a thick layer of blackcurrant jam over her fried bread.

Mr Granger turned the page of his morning newspaper and grunted. "It's just a puppy, dear.

"A puppy neither of us remember buying!"

"I still think you did, Gracie" Mr Granger said. "You know how you get in December. You go on random shopping binges."

"I'd remember buying a dog!"

"You didn't remember buying that car—"

"That was different!"

Abram Granger put down the paper just enough to give his wife the eyebrow.

Grace Granger fidgeted nervously. "I'm being serious, Bram. Don't you see how he watches you? He's like a cobra rising up from a basket. He has this baleful stare, and sometimes he seems like he's arguing with himself."

Bram shook his head. "Look, he's just a puppy. Hermione is happy, and she's going to take good care of him. She's not like other children who want something and then lose interest after a week. We'd been considering getting her one, so I don't see why you're so upset over a little pup that you can't remember getting."

Grace threw up her hands in exasperation. "Honestly, Bram, I'm telling you I _didn't _buy it!"

"Maybe it was your Uncle Chauncey from the States. Isn't he a champion dog breeder, in fact?"

Grace looked a bit dubious."Maybe," she finally acquiesced. "But I don't think that dog looks like a purebred champion type at all."

Bram just shrugged. "Mutts are stronger in the long run and tend to have fewer health issues besides."

Mrs Granger rubbed her forehead and sighed in reply before calling out, "Hermione! Breakfast!"

"Coming, Mum!"

The pattering of multiple feet, both clawed and not, delivered the Granger's daughter and her pup from the back garden. The pup looked like he had a charred (was that a squirrel?!) clutched in his jaws.

Mr Granger only frowned slightly when Hermione insisted that Prince have three bowls of water and three bowls of food laid out for him. Seeing as she'd clean them all up after, he agreed, going back to his paper.

"Honestly, Hermione," Mrs Granger tutted. "Why do you need so many bowls for one dog?"

"One bowl for each head, Mummy," Hermione answered easily, sitting down at the table to eat her breakfast fry-up.

"I'm going to have to take you to see an optometrist, Hermione, dear," Mrs Granger said, shaking her head at her daughter.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "Okay, Mum."

When Mrs Granger looked down to see all three bowls had been emptied right down to the shiny bottoms, she frowned.

Puppies were sure hungry little buggers!

Prince was staring up at her with his fathomless black eyes.

She could have sworn she saw flames flickering within them. Phantom screams shrieked in her head like a stuck record. She swallowed hard and hurriedly went back to her own breakfast, trying very hard to not look the pup in the eyes.

* * *

"No, Daddy!" Hermione protested. "Prince doesn't want parts snipped off!"

"He'll be fine, sweetie," Mr Granger said as he carried his sobbing child out of the clinic.

"Nooo!"

"It's perfectly safe, Hermione!"

"Then you get snipped first and show him it's okay!" Hermione wailed.

Mr Granger paled as he carried his hysterical child out of the veterinarian's clinic, giving the front desk employee an apologetic look.

* * *

_**Local Veterinarian's Clinic Attacked by Wild Animal**_

_Doctor Fletcher, veterinarian of the last three decades, claims a maniac with a wild animal and flamethrower broke into his clinic and ransacked the holding area, scattering many pets into the wind and burning half of his clinic before firefighters arrived and put out the flames._

_Local residents are assisting authorities in helping find the displaced pets that fled the clinic during the night._

"_The pens looks like they have been smashed by bear," veterinarian tech, Lisa Morgan stated as she attempted to salvage what was left of the clinic._

* * *

Hermione hadn't stopped sobbing all day and into the night. When she finally did, Mr and Mrs Granger figured their daughter had finally cried herself to sleep. Little did they know that a certain three-headed pup had come home, burrowed under his mistress' arms, licked away her tears, and happily allowed her to snuggle him to sleep (after a frantic check to make sure he still had his male-dog parts.)

When the morning paper came in, the Grangers knew that they'd never manage to get the pup away from Hermione again, and when the dog gave the pair of them a look that could only be described as molten evil wrapped in accusatory suspicion, all thoughts of neutering Hermione's best friend went up in smoke.

* * *

The royal mail started to arrive at the foot of the carpark instead of the door, much to the Granger's displeasure. Neither parent could figure out why the postal worker would be afraid of a puppy— even a stern-looking puppy that held a grudge against getting his bits removed. Never fail, if Hermione wasn't home with Prince, the yard was guarded by the dutiful puppy.

Mr Granger puzzled over where all the charred rodents were coming from. Small, smoking corpses lay about the outside of the garden wall quite regularly. Mrs Granger noticed a distinct lack of rodent activity inside the house— they had debated on getting a cat for that very reason— and the food pantry was now blissfully untampered with.

Meanwhile, Hermione's nannies all began to show signs of a strange paranoia, each leaving and claiming various reasons from sick family and allergies to dogs— _violent _allergies.

Hermione, of course, had always done quite well on her own, and with Prince around, she needed even less adult tending.

They did puzzle over why all the crucifixes that Cousin Ginger had gifted them over the years spontaneously melted into an unrecognisable puddle of base metal and charred fake pearls, yet Great Grandmother Irene's remained completely pristine and untouched in its jewelry box.

They boggled over why the neighbour's lawn kept catching on fire, and why said neighbour was last heard of being checked (voluntarily) into Bethlem Royal Hospital for her mental health.

Perhaps, they eventually decided, they simply needed to water their lawn much more often. The other neighbours' yards didn't spontaneously combust, after all.

At least their Hermione was happy, they decided. They could tolerate that she always kept a large jingle bell around Prince's neck. He seemed perfectly fine with it and the other bling she'd randomly inflict upon him, like painting his claws silver and green.

She'd sprawl out on the library carpet, the pup snuggled up next to her as she read book after book. While doing her homework, it was Prince that dragged her outside to play or walk, take breaks, and made her remember to eat. He watched them both with deep suspicion, however, making sure he was always next to Hermione whether she was asleep or awake.

It seemed like such a small price to pay for a happier Hermione, the tiptoe-ing around the paranoid dog, and since he rarely if ever left Hermione's side, at least he wasn't out roaming the neighbourhood off-lead and finding trouble.

They _did _worry about her vision, though.

She was always petting Prince as if she couldn't figure out where his head actually was. She never had problems reading or using tools, but it seemed odd that she was convinced Prince had three heads.

He was just a dog, after all.

Just an ordinary, if a bit paranoid, dog.

* * *

Prince panted contentedly as he lay next to his sleeping mistress, enjoying the feel of her snuggled up against him. Before, he had always been the one snuggled up against her, but he was bigger now, and she snuggled up against him.

Untrustworthy man and woman never seemed to see him as he really was nor did anyone but Hermione, but his mistress didn't seem to mind the horns and the ridges, flames, tentacles, or otherwise. The neighbour-spy had long since gone insane having had seen him chase the mail carrier out of the yard— screaming that demons were here on Earth.

No, Hermione clutched into his fur and snuggled him with the kind of devotion no one in Hell would have given him. Even his bitch mum had seemed eager to wean and be rid of her pups as soon as possible, and his sire father Zoltan had only had pride in the sheer number of pups he had sired for his master.

Hermione would bathe and groom him during the day, cleaning off the mud and soot off his body, and he would gently lave his tongue against her skin as she slept, slathering his molten drool across her exposed arms and face.

She was the one, after all: his mistress.

It was only right that the deeper their bond the more immunity she had from his fiery breath, molten drool, and brimstone gas.

The noxious gases kept untrustworthy man and woman away. Just as it should be.

They were untrustworthy, after all.

Everyone was untrustworthy, save for her.

When the black-cloaked interloper and trespasser materialised in Hermione's room with a sharp _**crack**_, his face covered in a silver, twisted, scowling mask, Prince knew _exactly _what to do with such things.

He gently tucked Hermione under the duvet as the trespasser looked furtively around in the dark. They pointed a wand out into the darkness like a ward.

Prince's lips pulled back from his teeth as he grew and grew in size and mass, the bed buckling under their combined weight. Silver and green painted claws extended as his teeth jerked from his gums and lengthened.

_**THWACK!**_

Three masses of tentacle-tongues hit the cloaked figure in the face, neck, and chest just before the fangs sank in with a disgustingly satisfying _**crunch **_and gurgle. Dagger-like claws shredded the unlucky interloper to pieces as each head grabbed a place and ripped them apart and devoured them.

Prince padded into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and brushed his teeth using the toothpaste scrubbers Hermione had rigged on the sink for him, one for each head, and made himself minty fresh. He thumped his paw on the faucet to turn it off and then padded back to Hermione's slightly (now) creaky bed and hopped up into it, snuggling in beside his mistress once more.

She pulled closer to his warmth, taking a deep breath of his minty breath, and sighed contentedly.

Prince belched softly, a trickle of black-green smoke that shaped into a skull and serpent forming before dissipating in impotent fury. He closed his eyes, appreciative of the midnight snack, even if the mask _was _a little bland and the robes tasted a bit like licorice.

His tail thumped the bed.

* * *

When Hermione and Prince arrived at Hogwarts, she found she was every bit the outcast there that she usually was. Whispers sounded off all around her, but they didn't seem to realise that her bushy hair hid a fully functional and keen set of canine ears to mirror Prince's.

She knew what they were saying about her, whispering how freakish it was that she brought a dog with her instead of a cat or an owl or even a toad like a normal person. Even a heavily freckled red-head who had an ugly greasy chip-smelling rat for a familiar seemed to think she was far more of a freak than _he _was.

Even though he couldn't cast a real spell by himself yet.

There was a bit of a drama in coming to Hogwarts, and she wasn't sure if it was normal or not, but it seemed like "Muggleborns" were being escorted in surrounded by brown-wearing "Aurors" due to some sort of danger to their lives before they could be safely sequestered away at school.

Some kindly elderly woman had found her in Diagon Alley and given Prince a shiny new tag for his collars, one for each head. She'd said it was a familiar registration tag so Prince could go to school with her too. Hermione had been glad of that since she hadn't wanted an owl or a toad or even a cat. She had nothing against them, but Prince was, well— Prince.

She'd promised to be with him always.

She had soon learned from _Hogwarts: A History_ that ever since 1981, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named had been trying to kill off Muggleborn students before they could reach Hogwarts. Well, his followers had been, that is. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (she just called him Trouble for short because names that were longer than an entire scientific name for the soldier fly really needed to be shorter. Just like no one really wanted to go around saying "Parastratiosphecomyia stratiosphecomyioides" Hermione didn't want to go around saying "He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named" either) had apparently offed himself trying to kill a boy named Harry Potter. Potter had lived, earning himself the moniker "The Boy-Who-Lived" (what _was _it with the long descriptive names?) and a reputation for having survived the killing curse.

Really, she had _no _idea what that meant other than he'd survived something really horrible. She'd imagined more than one curse could kill, and _Hogwarts: A History_ wasn't being that specific or helpful as to the particulars.

When it came time for the Sorting, Hermione ended up hat-stalling.

In fact, the poor Sorting Hat had begun to smoke and combust, and the Deputy Headmistress had to snatch it off her head, beat it on the Head Table, and dump a goblet of pumpkin juice on it.

As if Hermione hadn't felt ostracised enough—

All the others got Sorted before they tried again, and the Hat wasn't being very helpful there, either.

Kindly Professor Kettleburn ended up apprenticing her, and that caused a bit of a snit with the Headmaster, who insisted on having her Sorted. However, when Hermione passed out waiting for the hat to make up its mind (which it didn't) even the great Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had to admit defeat.

It might have been the elderly Poppy Pomfrey threatening the "old man's" life for having made the girl sit and wait so long that she had passed out that caused the staff to give him the stink-eye. Hermione wasn't quite sure, but Professor Kettleburn seemed happy enough to have her, even built an addition to his home out on the grounds, and happily showed her around and settled her in.

His hut was just close enough to Hogsmeade that it seemed to perpetually snow, but Hermione didn't mind the cold. Prince always made everything so warm and cozy. She loved how it always seemed like December, her most favourite season of the year.

She had to get used to calling Professor Kettleburn "Master" but she figured it wasn't any more complicated than remembering her manners at one of her parents' social parties where she had to remember who was Your Grace, or Lord, Lady, the Most Honourable, Much Honourable, Most Reverend, Right, or Very—

Life was— complicated.

Titles were doubly, triply so.

Master Kettleburn, she decided, was a man who had started life being a bit reckless and then decided that losing limbs and fingers was just not a way to judge how successful his life was. He'd grown to be cautious, and he was willing to teach such things to her so she didn't have to lose any fingers, arms, legs, or anything else.

Hermione truly appreciated the sentiment. She rather liked her limbs.

As Prince thumped one of his heads under her hand for pets, she thought idly that _he _rather preferred her to have hands too.

* * *

Kettleburn realised there was a severe lack of rodentia around his residence ever since he'd taken an apprentice, or rather, living rodents. He'd find charred corpses all over, scorched earth, splotches of cooled magma with a tail sticking out. He'd have wondered if Prince wasn't maybe indulging in a bit of extracurricular target practice if he hadn't known better. He stared in bemusement, having found a charred squirrel skewered to the trunk of a tree with an igneous rock spike.

He had no doubt at all that somehow his apprentice had bonded to a bonafide hellhound, but it was no garden variety like Hagrid's "Fluffy." He knew he had to tread carefully around the girl and make sure to explain things carefully lest she take things badly and Prince take them even worse.

Thankfully, she was a studious sort, and was far more apt to learn than skiv off, so many of the bad habits that would require admonishment weren't going to be an issue.

He wasn't about to tell Albus of his suspicions as the elder Headmaster had already demonstrated some odd behaviour around the young witch— the kind of attention a young girl did not need as she was working to assimilate herself into a new culture.

Hermione, he believed, should make her own choices as to who was to be her friend or not. Albus seemed to think she needed to make more Gryffindor friends. Seeing as she was not a member of any particular House, Kettleburn defended Hermione's right to make up her own mind in such things and Albus could (though he'd put it rather more tactfully) simply butt out.

* * *

The Potter and Weasley boys were in the infirmary again, and a baffled Hermione wondered why they seemed to always be there. She even knew about it, and she wasn't exactly in the know when it came to the ins and outs of the Gryffindor tower, even if it was the closest to Kettleburn's home geographically.

There was a giant man lurking about as of late, and she did mean that literally. He was a half-giant, her master said.

Prince didn't like him. Not at all.

He really didn't like anyone, really.

When the half-giant came by for tea, Hermione instantly didn't like him. Oh, on the outside he appeared alright (well whatever normal was for a half-giant man), but he kept trying to convince Kettleburn to take him as an apprentice because he wanted to teach Care of Magical Creatures.

Hermione and Prince, hidden away in her room, hunkered down and finished her lessons, her ears flat to her head as she listened to the man's arguments that he'd make a great teacher.

"I'm sorry, Hagrid, but your love for the beast is not what is in question. It is whether you'd understand the safety of the students," Kettleburn said, his fingers tapping on the desk rhythmically. "You've been notoriously oblivious to personal and other student safety since you were a student here, and while you never mean to harm anyone, you always seem to be in the thick of something involving drama. It's what got you in trouble the first time around."

"That's unfair, Sir!" Hagrid protested. "I was framed."

"But you did have a contraband animal that escaped into the forest."

"He's me friend!" Hagrid reasoned.

"A friend that grew up and you provided a mate for. The Forbidden Forest is peppered with your 'friends,' Hagrid. They are the main reason students cannot enter the forest, and some of them are the reason I lost fingers trying to contain! Need I remind you about Fluffy?"

There was an awkward silence after Kettleburn's words sunk in.

"Fluffy wouldn'a 'arm anyone."

Kettleburn's fingers drummed louder. "I would have words with you, Hagrid, but my apprentice is but a few feet through this wall, and such words have no place in which I want her safety and comfort above all."

Hermione frowned as whatever Kettleburn said after that was muffled, but the half-giant stormed off into the snow afterwards.

Hermione finished the last of her homework, cuddling Prince. "What a strange man, don't you think, Prince?"

The three-headed hound yawned, belching flame that made Hermione's hair frizz even more. Hermione shook her head at him. "At least my hair doesn't burn," she said. She fingered her curls with a puzzled expression. "Your oil is rubbing off on me."

Prince cocked his heads and panted, tail wagging.

"Come on, let's go for a walk."

Prince jumped up.

"Master Kettleburn, is it okay if we go for a walk? Prince probably has to go."

"Of course, my dear," Silvanus said, nodding. "I'll walk with you since it's nighttime. With Hagrid running around out there, his friends tend to visit."

"Friends?" Hermione asked.

"He has many beasts that he has tended over the years, Apprentice," Kettleburn replied. "Not all of them are friendly to anyone but him, and even that is debatable. His skin is quite impervious compared to ours."

Hermione made an oh shape with her lips and shrugged. "Ready, Prince?"

Prince panted, tail wagging, grabbed her sleeve in his left head's mouth and dragged her out the front door.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Hermione said, laughing.

Kettleburn chuckled as he followed.

* * *

"Your freak dog attacked my Scabbers!" the freckled, red-faced boy spat at her, pieces of his lunch flying in the air from his mouth.

"He's been with me all the time. I hardly see how," Hermione said. "Unless your rat has been breaking into my master's home and thus away from you."

Prince growled beside her.

Hermione thought it was odd how much they liked to blame her or Prince for things they hardly had control over. Prince knew better than to attack familiars with the familiar tag on them, school owls, or even the school bats. He knew she liked the bats, so he left them alone. Rodents, however, were constantly plaguing Kettleburn's home on the grounds (trying to escape the cold, perhaps), and Prince was always ready to use them as target practice and midnight snacks. Her master gave them permission to rid them of the rodents, and Prince had no compunctions about doing so.

She admitted it was a little creepy how he pinned them to the wall with igneous rock spikes before making them rodent flambe, but she had to confess his aim was perfect. At least he'd stopped trying to offer her mouthfuls as a snack. She appreciated the generosity and all, but— ew.

"Look, if you want to come check all the impaled corpses on my master's walls, you're welcome to, provided my master agrees," Hermione said coldly. "I did not, nor did Prince, attack your rat. Prince doesn't miss. If he attacked Scabbers, he'd be dead on our wall, charred to death."

The freckled menace turned green and ran away, his mop-haired sidekick limping after him.

Prince growled softly.

Hermione put a soft hand on the side of his muzzle and rubbed his chin and ears. "He's an idiot," she said.

Prince whufted in agreement.

* * *

Okay, so, maybe there was something odd about Ronald Weasley's rat.

Kettleburn was screaming orders at people as the half-charred, semi-alive, almost-rat writhed on the wall of the house, a stake of igneous magma-cooled rock impaling him just below the heart.

Prince looked like he was trying to go in for the kill, never letting Hermione get past him to look closer. Kettleburn blocked the dog from doing any (more) harm than a stake to the chest had already done.

Animagus, she heard the adults say.

Peter Pettigrew.

Death Eater.

A sea of brown-robed Aurors arrived and crowded into Kettleburn's poor, abused home spouting all kinds of names and terms she'd never heard of before.

One of them was Azkaban.

Dementor.

The Kiss.

Murderer.

Hermione did her best to hole up in her room and look busy.

She wrapped her arms around Prince and snuggled with him. "Good dog."

Prince gave her the best minty-fresh, magma-laden, tentacle-tongue bath a three-headed hellhound was capable of, happy that his mistress had been saved from the suspicious rodent-thing.

He would gladly char the enemies who would harm his mistress to the very end.

* * *

"You smell like alcohol," Hermione said, eyes narrowing as she side-stepped the thick-glasses wearing professor.

"Imposhible, girl," Trelawney gushed. "I smell like flowers on a spring day."

"If the flowers were drowned in alcohol," Hermione said, her lips pulled back into a sneer. She moved her arms, crossing them over her chest as she pulled her apprentice robes about her shoulders. She always kept her hood up, unlike most students, partially to tame her hair and partially to conceal her definitive ears.

She didn't want to give anyone more reason to point their accusatory fingers at her.

The Divination professor stared at her. "Darkness and evil swirl around you, child!" she lamented. "The stench of fire and brimstone consumes you!"

Prince hung his head a bit at that, and Hermione lifted her chin defiantly. "Must have been the beans in my fryup," she replied, continuing on her way down the hallway corridor towards her next class.

Trelawney shivered. "Doom, girl! You stay with that hound of Hades and you shall become as he!"

Hermione stopped in her tracks and turned back towards Trelawney. "I would never leave my friend," she said stiffly. "Better to be a hound of Hades with him than alone without him." Hermione's eyes seemed to darken. "At least I don't have to drink to avoid my problems."

With that, Hermione disappeared around the corner, just as Prince hiked his leg in Trelawney's direction.

KERZAP!

Sybill went flying into the wall, propelled by a powerful jolt of lightning.

She smoked and sizzled, her hair every which way, letting out a pained wheeze.

* * *

The years passed strangely peacefully, and with Kettleburn supervising her, that means she didn't have to go home during the summer hols and could remain with him all year. She found it suited her and their projects. She usually focused on Defence during the holidays since Professor Quirrell was such an odd teacher.

The man seemed oddly more and more frustrated as the years went on, and she didn't like how he looked at her in class.

After almost seven years of suffering his stuttering, Hermione no more trusted him than she trusted the Headmaster, and she trusted the Headmaster about as much as a pill hidden in a hotdog.

She never tried to fool Prince into taking medicine. It served no purpose when she knew he could smell it. She could smell it too. She was honest, and he always seemed to understand. It was better to take your anti-flea pill than itch, and it didn't matter if you could flame the critters off yourself if they had bitten you first.

The years brought chaotic news, reports of more attacks on Muggles by the agents of Trouble. Trouble seemed to live up to his Hermione-made moniker by directing his minions from the grave

Only, they kept attacking where Aurors would show up.

The Aurors, as only natural, obliterated the law-breakers.

People were starting to think the Death Eaters were losing their moxie or their minds-or both.

Hermione pondered the both angle because the Aurors weren't losing anyone.

With her N.E.W.T.s taken early, all Hermione had to do in her last year was wait for her mastery projects to be graded and approved by the board. The rest was just doing what she had been doing: assisting Professor Kettleburn in teaching classes and keeping the students from doing something utterly stupid around a hippogriff or giving milk to a hedgehog.

_Much easier said than done_, she thought ruefully.

N.E.W.T.s actually seemed oddly calming by comparison.

She lay back against Prince and yawned drowsily. His sides moved like a bellows as his pervasive warmth flowed all over her.

In all her years of schooling, no one really filled her heart quite like Prince, and every thought of dating like a "normal" person fell to the wayside when they treated Prince like he was a freak. Most people treated her like one , anyway, and that without even catching sight of her ears, nails that were a little _too _sharp, pads on her feet and fingers. Those traits, at least, were a bit more subtle, and most people didn't look closely enough to notice, and she privately thought it quite fitting to share such traits with her beloved familiar.

All the books she read said the tighter one's bond with their familiar the better. It was only logical, after all.

What was the Muggle saying? Like pet like owner? Something like that, anyway.

She didn't really consider Prince a pet so much as a dear friend and companion. He made a better partner in her studies than any person. He'd even take her wrist in his mouth and yank her hand away when she wasn't paying close enough attention when brewing. He'd found her a ratty old scribbled in book in a cabinet that had helped her in Advanced Potions.

The book had a signature on it proclaiming it to be the property of "the Half-blood Prince," and that had amused her considering that Prince had actually found it.

He was a fickle lab partner, though, nipping her when she would quote from some book instead of thinking on her own or when she lapsed into a casual bossiness with her other (human) partners. Still, she wouldn't have traded him for anyone. There were times he seemed more human than the people around her— more genuine, more transparent.

Prince groomed her hair, saturating her head with oily flame-slobber. She pushed one head away only to get the other two finishing off what the first one had started. She sputtered as he pinned her down with one large paw and thoroughly slurped her over.

"Nnngh!" she protested, giggling as his tongues tickled her skin.

She pulled herself up on his "scruff" of horns that lined one of his heads and sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

Prince tongue-lolled at her, panting happily in response.

She snuggled into his mane of oily fur, inhaled, and sighed, closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep.

She woke with a start to the sound of Prince growling, and he wedged one head under her to topple her onto his back.

"What?" she mumbled. "What's wrong?"

She grunted as she looked around. It was full dark already, and the moon was starting to emerge from behind the clouds.

Hermione clung tightly to Prince's broad back as he zoomed back toward Kettleburn's home, skidding to a halt to push her firmly into the shelter with all three heads.

"Prince, what on earth are you—"

_**THUMP!**_

His rear end faced the front door, preventing anyone from going in or out.

"Prince!"

Hermione beat on the door and then sighed in resignation.

"Why do you always get so riled up during full moons?" she asked. She trudged over to the shelf and picked up _Hogwarts: A History,_ flipping through it.

"The last werewolf seen at Hogwarts was Remus John Lupin, convicted murderer of Severus Snape in the spring of 1977. Sirius Black, Lupin's best mate, had lured his fellow classmate to the Shrieking Shack and locked Severus Snape inside, allowing the werewolf to maul him to death. The reigning Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, had apparently permitted Lupin's best mates to keep him company during his transformations in secret as a group of unregistered Animagi."

Hermione paused after reading, her fingernail tapping on the entry. "James Potter was found innocent of the incident after having attempted to rescue Severus Snape. Portrait witnesses confirmed that Potter had been trapped in a broom closet to prevent his interference. Peter Pettigrew fled Hogwarts after the incident and was never seen again. [Addendum: See update on Peter Pettigrew, 1994.] Sirius Black was expelled from Hogwarts, convicted and sentenced to life in Azkaban upon his conviction of conspiracy and the willful murder of a fellow student via werewolf. Headmaster Dumbledore was fined and his wages garnished for his part in allowing a known werewolf to Hogwarts without informing officials and the staff of Hogwarts. He was also removed as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot but was allowed to remain as headmaster of Hogwarts. Remus Lupin disappeared into the woods before the Aurors could be summoned becoming one more rumour and threat to the Forbidden Forest."

Hermione sighed, shelving the tome back on the bookcase.

It still didn't explain why Prince was always such a stubborn arse about ensuring she remained indoors during every full moon. It was only at Hogwarts. He'd never been so strange about it before Hogwarts.

Hermione itched her ear with her fingers, her nails giving her skin that oh so satisfying scratch. _What a bother_, she thought. She stared at the black pads that had formed on her fingertips and palms with curiosity.

She wondered if even a werewolf would consider her human, not that she was going to throw herself at one and find out. _Ob_viously.

"I just wish you could talk to me, sometimes," she whispered against the door, placing her hand on it. "Tell me what's bothering you. You're like my best friend, and I worry sometimes."

There was a niggling in her gut like the wriggling movement of small fish that whispered what she felt for Price was more than just simple friendship— a reason why no other wizard would ever measure up. How could they?

She realised in that moment, she was doomed. She would never be normal, get married, have the two point five kids and the back garden to die for. She might manage the garden, but—

No one else could ever share her soul like Prince, so how could anyone even _try _to lay claim to that?

There were times she remembered her dreams— of a dark-haired boy with Prince's oily man-like hair— who had seemingly grown up with her. Dark gaze, smouldering anger, yet an almost shy touch. Beneath that was an undeniable protectiveness.

He drove her to think outside of books, stop relying on the approval of others, be comfortable in her independence from Wizarding expectations. The phantom from her dream was more a friend than the students that infested Hogwarts. He was—

Familiar.

Hermione sighed, her claws scraping lightly against the wood of the door. _You're projecting, Hermione_, she admonished herself. _You can't find someone who can accept you, so you wonder what Prince would be like if he were human. As if that would ever be possible._

She shuffled off to bed, already hearing Kettleburn's soft snores coming from his bedchamber. She rubbed her hands against her arms, feeling cold. She was so used to Prince being around that when he wasn't, even the warmth of the house seemed chilly.

She fluffed her pillow and burrowed under her duvet with a heavy sadness.

_You're pathetic_, Hermione said to herself.

Independence would be fine if it weren't so damned lonely without Prince, her heart protested.

And what if he finds a mate and doesn't have to focus on you so much, Hermione? Then what? Doesn't he deserve to be happy too?

Hermione pulled her pillow tight. Of course he deserves to be happy.

You just want him to he happy with you. Selfish bint.

Hermione burrowed deep under her duvet and closed out the world, stifling the tears threatening to overcome her.

Stupid emotions.

Stupid heart.

* * *

Head number one growled at the middle head. Head number three snarled and tugged, trying to will the rest of the body to go back inside and be where he belonged: next to Hermione.

The middle head was determined to guard the house. The full moon was dangerous.

_Dangerous._

_Protect._

Head number one projected a slew of canine epithets, sending images that protection was much better accomplished while he was by her side.

Head number three projected the image of his Hermione crying herself to sleep because of _**HIM!**_

Idiot! Head number one yelled at head number two.

She needs us! Head number three said, whinging as he struggled to separate himself from the others if only to get to her.

The middle head was adamant. _Stay. Protect the house._

_Protect her by her side!_ Head number one barked.

Heads one and three glowered mutinously, lips pulling back from their teeth as they prepared to rip the shite out of the middle head.

_**Arrrrroouuuuuuu!**_

All three heads snapped to attention.

He saw the shape hunkered unnaturally at the edge of the forest.

_Werewolf._

_Familiar._

_Hate._

_**KILL!**_

He tore off after the werewolf, barking furiously, flames escaping his mouth as his body grew bigger, his horns longer, his fangs like huge molten daggers.

There was no room for anything in his mind but murder.

* * *

It was only when his fangs were but inches away from tearing out Lupin's throat that sanity came to Prince in the form of gut-twisting terror.

_Hermione!_

Lupin had sent him on a wild chase across the entire forest—

Far from _her_.

_Pain._

_Fear._

_Anger._

_Loneliness._

He could feel her calling out to him, and where was he?

He'd abandoned her.

She _needed _him!

He'd left her.

_Left her!_

No. Nononono.

_**Hermione!**_

He hiked his leg, sending Lupin's charred, jolted body flying into the tree trunk and dashed back toward the place they had called home for almost seven years now.

A net came down around him.

Twisting, tightening.

_**NO!**_

Dark shapes, cloaked in black, wearing masks—

Her fear was choking him.

Her _pain_.

Her _desperation._

How were these cords holding him?

Why could he not _burn _them_?_

His fangs fought the cords, tearing, pulling, desperate—

He pissed on them, and the lightning jolted out and electrocuted three of the figures.

The others pointed their wands at him.

"He didn't say we had to leave 'im alive, did he?" one hissed.

"No," the other replied.

"Kill him for our Lord!"

"With pleasure."

"_**Sectumsempra!"**_

He let out a terrible screaming bay in his agony, his only thought to get back to _her—_

The only one who had ever truly mattered to him.

* * *

"Well, my little Mudblood bitch," Quirrell said lazily, for once lacking the stutter that usually punctuated his speech. "I finally have you alone."

Hermione heard an odd buzzing in her ears as Quirrell summoned a spell.

"No rabid freak-dog is around help you now, pet," he hissed. "I made sure of that." He wrapped his hands around her throat. "Your master is all but piss in the wind— sleeping away after our shared tea and sympathy. He thinks so highly of you, you see. Stupid man. He wants you to stay in this horrid place. But I—"

He smiled cruelly.

"I just want you _dead_," he said. "Your bloody meddling. You destroyed my agents, my chosen. You kept me from what is mine. But you were always guarded by that infernal mutt. Always watching. Animal. Perverted beast that— loves you. Disgusting."

He crushed her windpipe with his thumbs, digging in.

"Wands are so— higher thinking. You deserve less."

"Look at you— your stupid bond to the beast twisting your features into an animal. You allow some animal to be important, as important as magic. Well—"

He slammed her into the stone floor, smiling as he crushed, his knees upon her chest and abdomen. "Nothing is as important as magic. Power. Me."

He grinned, his face twisting in a way that didn't seem natural on Quirrell's normally docile face. "Maybe I will give your tattered shell to Greyback— though you're a bit old for his tastes. Still— meat is meat, after all."

"Your fear— your bravery melts away without your dog," he heckled. "I shall kick you like the dog because he's probably dead now. I ensured it."

"No," Hermione whimpered. "No."

"Oh, yes." Quirrell purred. "Now you have nothing left to live for."

Hermione's body jerked, her tendons straining.

"And everything to die for—" he drawled. "_Me_."

With that his turban unravelled, and Hermione noted the unnatural cloying stench of decay and rot. Quirrell's face seemed to melt and reform into the features of another man, as if another face was taking over. "With you gone, all the dumb luck Dumbledore has had in keeping the stone from me will expire. I will have my own body again, and Potter—"

His lips curled into a malicious smile. "Potter will be nothing but ash."

Hermione's body jerked.

"Die for me, Mudblood," not-Quirrell said. "Like your dog."

Hermione hung limply, all the life in her seemingly lost with her overwhelming grief and despair.

As Quirrelmort smiled, he moved to break her neck completely, but a keening bay of rage and longing seemed to echo from everywhere all at once.

Screams of the damned echoed in every second.

The fires of damnation roared like Fiendfyre in his mind.

He dropped Hermione, and she fell to the floor with a dull thump.

She coughed, blood trickling from her mouth to the floor, but it hissed as it hit the ground, bubbling, changing.

"Your lies are transparent," Hermione said, her saliva dripping from her mouth to the floor in strange ropes. Her head jerked "You spout purity, but you are far from pure. Not in heart. Not in soul. Not in purpose. Not even to yourself. Even your body is not your own. I—"

Hermoine coughed, a cloud of black smoke expelling from her throat.

"I accept what I am, and if I must be a beast to be with the one I love, then gladly I would do so. That— you will never understand, but I shall teach you. Scream," she whispered, "by scream."

Her body began to smoulder, smoke rising from skin and clothes.

The ground cracked, exposing fire and cinders.

Her robes began to burn.

Limbs cracked, twisted, and reformed. Skin stretched; muscles tightened and expanded. Her jaw jutted out, snapping as molten fangs poured from her mouth, slavering magma as tendrils of smoke formed into tentacles. Her head shook violently, seeming to split like a cell in mitosis, once, twice. Muzzles formed, teeth bared, horns erupted as fire licked and claws twisted out of her forming paws. She fell onto all fours, not even attempting to remain upright, the fires of her agony turned to ecstasy as she shed her human form.

Quirrell, eyes huge and paralysed with shock, tried to stumble backwards, but Hermione's middle head opened her jaws as a rush of black tentacles shot out and grasped his face, crushing it even as heads one and two tore out his throat from the opposite sides. The middle head took Quirrell's head and neck down to the shoulders in its mouth and shook him like a ragdoll, and the first and second heads grabbed whatever limb was closest and pulled him to pieces.

The smoky tatters of Voldemort's possessive spirit tried to escape, but just as it did, Prince smashed into the side of the room, stone flying in all directions, and breathed the very fires of Hell into Voldemort's soul-tatters all the way up the spider web of his many attempts to avoid fate.

As the charred pieces of Voldemort smouldered and bled around the destroyed room, skeletal, charred hands rose from the cracks in the molten earth and dragged the pieces down—

Down, down to Hell.

Where Lucifer waited with eager anticipation.

Meanwhile, the new hellhound seemed to think Prince was mighty interesting and sexy, and Prince seemed to think that consummating their long-prophesied (if a bit concealed by ambiguity of species) mating bond in celebration over the Dark Lord's smouldering corpse remains was a great idea.

Kettleburn, still drugged and under the _Mufflato_— slept on, dreaming obliviously.

* * *

"Madam Snape, that isn't true, is it? Harry Potter saved the Wizarding World, right?"

Hermione closed the book before putting it back on the shelf as she kissed her charge on the forehead. "Well, Anna, I suppose he _did _collect the charred Horcruxes and prevented something even worse coming back to bite the Wizarding World on the arse."

"Are you calling my mum a liar?" a curly-haired child accused, narrowing her eyes as she glowered darkly at the older child.

"Now, now, Tabitha" Hermione said, pushing an oily lock behind one ear. "It is but a story. It is up to you to choose whether to believe or not, just as it is up to you to make the choice to believe what anyone tells you or not."

"But if it were true, then hellhounds would be real!" Anna said, crossing her thin arms across her chest.

The three pups by the fireplace looked up at that proclamation with narrowed eyes.

"There are many things and many stories in this world, dear child," Hermione said. "I'm sure your grandfather would agree."

"Grandfather Silvanus says that hellhounds are real," Anna pouted. "But I've never seen one. They can't be real. Hippogriffs are real, but hellhounds are only mythical."

"Well, why don't you finish up your letters to Santa and have a good sleep on it?" Hermione said with a small quirk of her lips.

The two children finished up their letters, sealed them, and put them on the mantle.

"It's bed time for you, Anna. You don't want to be late to meet your grandfather in the morning."

"I hate when he goes off to lecture," Anna said, pouting. "It's Christmas!"

"Well, you can hardly lecture about the Abominable Snowman during summer, sweetling," Hermione said with a chuckle.

"Sure you can," Anna said, sticking out her lip.

"Not if you want the Snowmen to cooperate," Hermione said dryly.

Anna seemed utterly unwilling to compromise until one of the pups bit her ankle and began to hike his leg.

"Oooops!" Hermione said, scooping up the pup into her arms. "None of that, my love."

The children shambled off to brush their teeth and get ready for bed as Hermione let the pups into the master bedroom before closing the door.

Severus stood by the mantle, his eyes heated upon the sight of her. "It would be far easier to eat her than deal with her," he said, licking his teeth with his tongue.

"She's family," Hermione admonished. "Or close enough."

Severus's black ears flicked as he scratched his chin with long, canine claws. "Hn," he said.

Hermione sank into his embrace and gave him a kiss. "Bed?"

Severus' eyes seemed to smoulder before he transformed into the giant three-headed dog he was, and she followed suit. They shook themselves off and lay together by the fire. The pups scrambled up to fight over her teats, took in their dinner, and then bounced off to the lavatory to brush their fangs before bed. They bounded back in, cuddling up to their parents in a large pileup.

Tabitha, late to the party, snuck in— the only one of the litter who actually preferred her human form. She snuggled in the pile with her brothers and sisters with a contented sigh.

Severus groomed his mate lovingly before laying his head over her back, eyes closing.

Meanwhile, out in the living room, one handwritten letter addressed to: Satan fell into the fireplace and disappeared in a puff of black smoke.

* * *

**The End? (evil laughter here)**


End file.
